On Deadline
by foojules
Summary: Tom has to work late, so his ever-thoughtful wife brings him dinner... and dessert. An answer to the "anywhere but a bed" thing going around tumblr. Rated M, obvs.


Summer, 1919

It was getting dark out, and Tom was getting close to being finished. He'd been out all day reporting and needed to file his story in time for the morning edition. Printing wouldn't start until the wee hours, so he technically had until then- but he didn't want to think about the tongue-lashing he'd get if he ran down to the pressroom with a story to set with less than a few hours remaining before press time. So once again it'd be whiskey for dinner for him, and Sybil would probably be asleep by the time he got home.

Everyone else had left for the night, and the only light burning in the newsroom was in his office. Half-office, really, since the walls around his desk didn't reach the ceiling. Tom was nursing a drink from the bottle he kept in his desk drawer and weighing a sentence in his mind when he registered the click-click of a woman's shoes approaching from the corridor. It didn't sound like the cleaning woman, but he ignored it until a pair of hands, still soft, covered his eyes.

"Guess who," a female voice said playfully. Below her hands, he smiled. He'd know her dirty-honey voice anywhere. More than once he'd thought that if she tried, she could make him come just by talking, if she talked long enough and said the right things. But _that _was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

"Uncle Tom Cobbley," he answered, and she laughed and removed her hands. He spun his chair, a basic armless office model, around to face her. "What are you doing here, love?" Despite the interruption, he couldn't imagine ever not being pleased to see her.

"I've brought you some dinner," she said with a touch of pride, picking up a covered dish from the shelf where she'd set it. Tom lifted the cover and inspected the contents with trepidation: it looked as if some of it had once been beef. A shame, really.

"I had a sandwich earlier," he fibbed. "Love, you didn't have to come all the way over here."

"You're not hungry?" She seemed disappointed, and Tom wondered if he was going to have to choke it down to mollify her. "Because I brought dessert as well."

"Did you?" He looked at her nonplussed. She wasn't carrying anything else, other than her handbag.

"I did." He might have noticed her voice dropping by half an octave, if his mind hadn't still been half in the last paragraph he'd been writing. He might also have wondered why his wife was wearing a coat, albeit a light one, in July.

Then she unbuttoned it and all he could think was _Oh, Jaysus_. He swallowed, flicking his eyes up to her face (her expression was _quite _smug, he noted), then back down, then back up, and then a long lingering look back down, from face to clavicle to breasts to... he felt his trousers getting tight._ She walked here like that?_ He wondered, but it was far away, unimportant, blown away by the knowledge that his wife was fulfilling something he'd barely let himself fantasize about.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" She asked teasingly. He opened his mouth but couldn't quite make anything come out. "It's all right," she told him, smiling. "I didn't come to _talk _to you." Then she stepped towards him to stand astride one leg and his arms were around her under the coat, his hands gently squeezing her arse, mouth on one rosy nipple, tongue lashing at it. She was moaning. He moved one hand between her legs, growling when he felt how wet she was. "I was thinking about this all the way here," she whispered. He slid a finger inside her, then another, brushing her clitoris with his thumb and moving his hand faster and faster, tonguing her nipple hard, until her moans turned into cries and her legs gave way under her and she had to sit down on his thigh. Still he kept touching her, making her twist and writhe on his lap. He could feel her warm wetness through his trouser leg. "_Shit_, Tom," she hissed, pressing her face against his collar, digging her nails into the back of his neck. He had to brace himself against the desk to prevent the chair rolling out from under them.

She kissed him, running her tongue along his lower lip before taking it gently in her teeth. She pulled back and smiled licentiously, ran her hands over his shoulders, down his chest and belly to the bulge in his trousers. He groaned, louder than he meant to, when she began rubbing it rhythmically through his clothing. His hands moved softly up her back under her coat; she still had it on, along with her shoes. Somehow, that made it even more exciting.

Sybil began undoing his trousers with deft hands. She half-stood up so Tom could push them down enough to let himself spring free, then slowly lowered herself onto him, maintaining eye contact all the while. She looked so enticing and felt so good-was so soft and hot and soaking, soaking wet-he almost spent right then like a schoolboy losing his virginity.

Suddenly there were footsteps in the corridor. Both of them froze in panic. There was nowhere to hide, no time to pull themselves together: If someone came into the room, they'd be discovered. "Who would be here?" Sybil whispered frantically.

"No one comes up here at this time except the cleaning woman!" Tom hissed back. And it sounded like her; her broom moved up the hallway floor. Sometimes she came into the newsroom at night to empty the trash bins. She was right outside the partially-open door. Sybil and Tom both held their breaths for what seemed like an hour, until she passed by. They heard the broom swishing off down the corridor.

"Is she coming back?" Sybil asked, under her breath.

Tom rolled the chair painstakingly over to the door-fortunately, it was not far away-pushed it all the way closed and turned the key. All without separating from Sybil. "Not in here," he said, grinning.

Sybil glanced down. "I see we're still... in business," she said drily. "I would've thought that little scare would've dampened your ardor."

"Oh," Tom said carelessly, "It takes more than a near miss with the custodial staff to get me down-_Oh God_, my darling-" Sybil had started undulating in his lap again. Their hearts were pounding still, and if anything the encounter had heightened their arousal, though it had given Tom a chance to gain a little control.

Sybil began finding their position a little awkward, and she stood up. Tom made a small sound of disappointment at their separation, but smiled when she took his hands and pulled him up.

He ran his hands over her body underneath the coat, sliding them over her breasts, down her waist and hips, his mouth on her neck. He put his hands on her arse and lifted her, carrying her the few feet to his desk, sweeping the papers out of the way before depositing her on the edge of it and pushing himself into her once again. They kissed, making little sounds into one another's mouths, thrusting hard into each other, until Tom found his release and Sybil felt an answering tingle deep inside. He clutched his wife's hips and moaned against her tongue.

After a while they pulled apart, began putting themselves back to rights. Sybil smoothed a hand over her hair and then, smiling, reached over and pieced a few strands on his head back into place. She buttoned her coat.

"You never walked here wearing just that coat," Tom said. It seemed far more important now.

"I had on a house dress. I left it in the toilets down the hall," she admitted.

"Well, regardless, I'd better walk you home. I've just got a few more paragraphs and I'll be finished here." This was technically true, but they would be the most slapdash paragraphs ever written in the history of journalism, and that was saying something.

Fifteen minutes later they emerged from the building, Sybil having made a brief stop in the ladies' room. They were a few blocks down the street when Sybil reached into her bag, slewed her eyes toward Tom and said quite innocently:

"Do you know, I believe I forgot to put my dress back on. Somehow it's gotten into my handbag."

Tom smiled and said nothing, but thought about that all the way home.


End file.
